


Fox

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Ficlet, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-21
Updated: 2017-04-21
Packaged: 2018-10-22 08:03:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10692951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Thranduil finds some eye-candy amongst Elrond’s delegation.





	Fox

**Author's Note:**

  * For [aprilreign](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aprilreign/gifts).



> A/N: HAPPY BELATED BIRTHDAY, aprilreign! Prompt was “a slightly smitten elvenking seduced by Lindir's performance in his halls” on [my tumblr](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/). I’m sorry I’m so late! OTL I hope your day and year and life go awesome.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

The reception is far too dull for Thranduil’s tastes, despite his best efforts to the contrary—it seems Elrond drags his slumber-like grace wherever he goes. Still, Thranduil entertains his idle talk of far off events and pretends to enjoy the entertainment he brought ‘in Thranduil’s honour.’ None of the dancers hold the skills of Thranduil’s own people, and the minstrels that follow play a lilting dirge that might as well be a lullaby.

Elrond listens to his own players avidly. The only good thing about the first boring song is that it spares Thranduil any more talk—Elrond always refuses to rise to his challenge of more rousing topics. In the wake of their last discussion, Thranduil drowns himself in wine.

It’s when he’s downed three cups in a row that his eyes finally bother scanning the servants in the center of the hall, ceremonially arranged like living sculptures. Most are as plain as Elrond himself, but when Thranduil’s made it to the very end of the line, his eyes catch on a familiar face: Elrond’s attendant, if his memory serves.

It takes a minute to place the name: Lindir, he thinks. He could ask, but Elrond seems engrossed in the music. Legolas sits on his other side, but the Woodland Realm’s prince will have had little reason to dally with an attendant. Unless, of course, he shares his father’s proclivities, but Thranduil tries to clamp down on that; Legolas has yet to master the art of a true _fling_ , and it would do no good to find him emotionally attached to his lesser. The elf that Thranduil stares at must be little older than Legolas, but rather than Legolas’ wild flame, he wears Imladris’ usual gentle veneer. He’s probably never tasted Dorwinion in his life, probably never even conceived of the sort of carnal delights that occur at Woodland Festivals. Indeed, as the young minstrel finally notices Thranduil’s gaze, he blushes brightly across his fair cheeks and casts his eyes away and downward. A grin twitches across Thranduil’s lips, his gaze boring in all the harder. It’s been some time since he enjoyed a bashful catch; there is something so _cute_ and strangely enticing about the unspoiled.

The more Thranduil watches Lindir, the more he likes. Lindir clearly has both a passion and talent for his work; he plays his harp with expert control, his slim fingers dancing eloquently across their strings. The suggestion of skilled hands plays over in Thranduil’s guttural fantasies—hands are one of the best places to have any talent. Lindir is clearly capable of great subtly, yet to the effect of great response—his melody is clear and strong. When the song allows it, he parts his plush lips to sing, and Thranduil tunes out all the rest, focusing in on that one voice. Lindir’s vocals are intoxicating and easily ensnared in. His lyrics are enchanting. But mostly, Thranduil enjoys the view of his pink lips forming each syllable, and the soft tongue occasionally visible between.

Lindir’s entire body plays with his music. He doesn’t quite _sway_ like some of the others, but his head tilts with the crescendos, his chest arched sensually forward, his hair slipping silkily down his slender shoulders with each quiet movement. He avoids Thranduil’s gaze the entire time, and on each instance of him trying to glance up again, his blush only deepens. By the end of their set, he’s fully flushed and held taut, arced like a wanton dessert to Thranduil’s hearty meal. When the performance ends, Thranduil claps loud enough to startle Elrond at his side.

To his disappointment, Lindir isn’t in the next set. He leaves his harp for the next player and makes his leave with a bow, weaving back into the crowd of servants milling between tables. Thranduil keeps careful track of him, pleased when he approaches the head table to discreetly refill Elrond’s cup. Thranduil’s glad he didn’t assign Elrond a new attendant for this feast; it gives him the perfect opportunity. 

As Lindir sets the jug carefully back on the table, around Elrond’s other side, Thranduil bids, “Lindir.” The young minstrel straightens sharply, confirming his name. He turns wide eyes to Thranduil, his gaze full of awe. It instantly confirms the only invitation Thranduil needs; he knows that look well. He’s seen it worn by every one of his own servants, who whisper amongst themselves their insatiable desire for their king, their wonder for what he’s truly like as _just an elf_ , not a king, maybe even a _lover_. Lifting his half full cup, Thranduil drawls, “Will you fill mine, as well?”

Lindir bows his head and murmurs breathlessly, “Yes, my king.” His voice is just as unobtrusively seductive as it was in song—Thranduil can’t help but wonder how he never noticed Lindir before. Lindir wanders obediently around the back of Elrond’s chair, coming to tilt the jug over Thranduil’s glass, but Thranduil swiftly plucks the jug out of his hands and sets it on the table.

In the same moment, Thranduil catches Lindir’s wrist, holding up his delicate hand. Pretending to examine it, Thranduil muses, “You have very skilled fingers.” 

Lindir’s shoulders hunch shyly, and he answers, “Thank you, your highness.” The awe-stricken look has only increased, though he’s flushed deeper with the proximity and contact. He already looks thoroughly debauched by his own making, and it gives Thranduil a fierce desire to see it physically come through. He shifts his grip on Lindir’s wrist to the other hand so he can loop his arm quickly around Lindir’s waist, and in an instant, he’s tugged Lindir into his lap.

Lindir gasps, “My lord!” but hardly protests. None of Thranduil’s paramours ever have. Out the corner of his eye, Thranduil can feel Elrond’s shock and sudden glare, though Lindir’s trim body blocks the brunt of it. Legolas is likely looking deliberately elsewhere, and no one else would dare scold the King of the Woodland Realm for such behaviour. Elrond might be constantly choking on his own propriety, but Thranduil’s never been one to hide his pleasure within certain limits. 

He shifts Lindir easily along his thighs, while Lindir steadies himself against Thranduil’s chest, legs thrown side-saddle over him. Releasing Lindir’s wrist to cup his chin and thumb his soft bottom lip, Thranduil purrs, “I must ask—what was such a lovely songbird doing sitting so very far away from me?”

Lindir opens his mouth, lets out a tiny, wholly undignified whining noise as Thranduil strokes his cheek, and blushes deeper to stutter, “I-I would not wish to presume...”

Elrond loudly clears his throat and grunts a tight, warning, “ _Thranduil_.” If it weren’t for Lindir’s gaze, Thranduil would roll his eyes. 

Instead, he begrudgingly drawls, “We will have to continue this another time.” He makes the pointed invitation clear on his face, and he removes his hands from Lindir’s body, allowing Lindir the freedom to dismount him.

Lindir darts an embarrassed look over his shoulder at Elrond. Then he bites his bottom lip, and a sudden fire comes into his eyes that gives Thranduil a start. With the burning, intense desire that others have used to undress Thranduil with their eyes, Lindir ducks hurriedly forward to all but moan in Thranduil’s ear, “I will come to your quarters tonight, my lord, if your guards will allow it, and I will show you just what skill my hands and mouth are truly capable of.”

Then he’s slipping right off Thranduil’s lap, leaving Thranduil in stunned silence. Lindir’s already scampering away.

When Lindir’s settled in at one of the servant’s tables clear across the hall, Thranduil could swear he actually catches a _wink_ in his direction, but it’s gone as soon as it came.

Elrond shakes his head with a put-upon sigh, and Thranduil begins scanning the crowd for Tauriel—he must leave very clear instructions for tonight’s guard.


End file.
